The Call of the Wild

A DESERT TALE FEA­TUR­ING

Tracks - - Front Page - JA­COB WILL­COX - DINO ADRIAN - SHAUN MAN­NERS

Iguess the omens are good from the out­set. Mid­way en route from Syd­ney to Perth the pilot comes over the loud­speaker and an­nounces his name is Cap­tain Bar­rel – not a word of a lie.

Pho­tog­ra­pher Rus­sell Ord is there to col­lect me at the air­port with a ski hitched to the back of his ride. Russ's videog­ra­pher part­ner, quick­draw Dar­ren McCagh, is rid­ing shot­gun and WA prodigy Ja­cob Will­cox is in the back. Four­teen hours of long haul driv­ing lay between us and Gnar­aloo, where a six to eight foot swell is sched­uled to co­in­cide with our ar­rival. We are par­tic­i­pants in the great mi­gra­tion north which surfers from the west make ev­ery year through au­tumn and win­ter. Once the thick In­dian Ocean south swells col­lide with the desert-fringed waves of Nin­ga­loo reef, the West Aus­tralians aban­don their homes, their café-made cof­fees and reg­u­lar com­forts for a dusty camp­ing ground up north – each year they an­swer the call of the wild.

Any Gnar­aloo ex­pe­ri­ence can­not be di­vorced from the epic drive required to reach the wave oa­sis in the desert. It's the nec­es­sary suf­fer­ing one must en­dure be­fore catch­ing a bar­rel that may break your board and your body on first at­tempt. On the long, straight veins of bi­tu­men, which cut through WA, a rare bond is formed between the pas­sen­gers. Sur­rounded by a lu­nar land­scape they be­come as­tro­nauts of the high­way and talk­ing story is one of the only ways to stay sane.

I ask Ja­cob about what it was like to beat Kelly Slater in round one of the Rip Curl Pro Por­tu­gal last year. How did the 11-time world champ re­act when his chances of a 12th ti­tle were made that lit­tle bit harder by a skinny 16-year-old surf­ing WCT heats between home­work as­sign­ments? "I don't think he was very happy," sug­gests Ja­cob with a hint of dead­pan hu­mour. Wil­cox has a wil­i­ness about him. He's not shy but speaks with an econ­omy of lan­guage that im­plies an in­tol­er­ance for any kind of bull­shit. His de­meanour brings to mind Clint East­wood in the clas­sic western Pale Rider.

Ja­cob, how­ever, is wor­ried about an­other movie. In his fi­nal year of high school he is study­ing the mod­ern clas­sic Amer­i­can Beauty and has aban­doned an un­com­pleted as­sign­ment to come on this trip. It seems cu­ri­ous that Ja­cob has his head full of a movie about screwed up subur­ban Amer­ica while we are tear­ing through the dusty ex­panses of WA. The two set­tings could not have been any fur­ther apart. "My mum's freak­ing be­cause I failed an English exam," he sug­gests. While many

of his young, pro surf­ing peers have aban­doned their ed­u­ca­tion, Ja­cob is de­ter­mined to grad­u­ate. "I want to say that I fin­ished school," he states sin­cerely, point­ing out that com­plet­ing high school was some­thing Kelly did. When not study­ing or surf­ing, Ja­cob in­di­cates he en­joys box­ing train­ing and spar­ring with 'Brooksy', a Mar­garet River lo­cal who's set up a ring in his home and coaches ev­ery­one from lo­cal kids to hard-hit­ting mums. Between Russ and Ja­cob I'm given a run­down on the box­ing prow­ess of al­most ev­ery­one in Mar­garet River who's pulled on a pair of gloves.

On the road north col­li­sions with big roos and stray cat­tle are a con­stant threat. The high­way is pe­ri­od­i­cally stained with blood­ied road­kill and the driver must be vig­i­lant to avoid a fau­nal homi­cide. When we come up along­side a small car that is bereft of a bull bar the boys laugh scorn­fully. "I wouldn't like to be do­ing the trip in that," sug­gests Ja­cob who at 17 al­ready has a decade of Gnar­aloo road trips to his name.

We by­pass a cou­ple of mas­sive cows that lie on their backs with their hooves ob­scenely up­turned, and won­der what be­came of the ve­hi­cle that skit­tled them. Fur­ther along the road we slow down and stare into the ruth­less eyes of a gi­ant ea­gle, its beak bloody with the en­trails of the evis­cer­ated roo upon which it is perched. The ea­gle is the big­gest bird of prey I have ever laid eyes on and seems to sig­nify our en­try into a land that is as in­hos­pitable as it is starkly beau­ti­ful. A kill or be killed kind of place.

The sto­ries flow as we chew through the miles. For en­ter­tain­ment value pho­tog Russ Ord's tales are hard to beat. He tells us how in Amer­ica he be­came a re­luc­tant overnight star when he res­cued a drown­ing surfer at Mav­er­icks. Russ was tak­ing pho­tos when a first-timer at Mav's was caught by a sneaker set and thrown back­wards with a pitch­ing lip. By the time Russ got to him he was near-dead. He hauled the guy on to his ski and trans­ported him back to land, where he was re­vived. The US me­dia went crazy for the hum­ble, good-na­tured Aussie. There were limo rides and TV re­quests for the fire­man/pho­tog­ra­pher, who sug­gested he was sim­ply act­ing as he would if he were on the job and res­cu­ing some­one from a blaze. So over­whelmed with the at­ten­tion was Russ that he es­caped back to Aus­tralia where a me­dia frenzy again awaited him at Perth air­port.

Per­haps more uniquely Aus­tralian is Russ's anec­dote about his days as a pro­fes­sional rugby league-play­ing fire­man. Young Russ found him­self as the re­luc­tant cover boy for the famed Men of the Fire Brigade cal­en­dar. When or­gan­is­ers in­sisted he par­take in a cat­walk pa­rade to pro­mote the cal­en­dar he got roar­ing drunk to cope with the em­bar­rass­ment. De­spite the vi­o­lent han­gover, the very next day he man­aged to kick the win­ning field goal in the last minute of his grand fi­nal.

THE CAMP­SITE DOWN THE ROAD

When we roll in to the camp­site late on a Tues­day af­ter­noon, a stiff on­shore breeze whips at the ocean's sur­face and the red dust. We are met by Matt and Shaun Man­ners. Shaun is an­other of WA's emerg­ing tal­ents and at the time of our ar­rival he and Ja­cob have claimed one con­test apiece in the lo­cal state rounds. His fa­ther Matt is a re­spected surfer and shaper who has been com­ing north since the '80s. Matt and Shaun have parked their car­a­van at the base of a sand dune on top of which is perched an aban­doned couch. On a clear day you can sit on the weath­ered lounge and stare down to­wards the Gnar­aloo lineup in the dis­tance – the per­fect desert throne.

As Ja­cob sets up his swag, a tow­er­ing fig­ure with a goofy smile wan­ders past the camp­site. Dawbs is on his pe­ri­odic break from his min­ing gig and has bolted north for the swell. "Oh, how many grom­mets does it take to put up a swag?" jokes Dawbs, as Shaun helps Ja­cob with his elab­o­rate mini-tent. "You don't have to worry about peg­ging them down if you've got the big 100kg frame like me," chuck­les Dawbs. Dawbs is a familiar fig­ure around the camp and back in Mar­garet River. There are not many places in the world where you can drive 14 hours north to a camp­ground and find that most of the peo­ple there are friends from back home. In Europe you would be three coun­tries and as many lan­guages away from where you started, but in WA, such are the mi­gra­tory pat­terns of the Mar­garet River folk, it some­how feels like you have just gone up the road.

LOONEY TUBES

The desert air is still full of bite as we load up the trucks and drive the short dis­tance to the car park op­po­site the tomb­stones sec­tion of the reef. As fore­cast the wind has swung off­shore over night and the first lines of the new swell are grip­ping the reef. What strikes you most about Gnar­aloo as you look at it from front on is how quickly it shifts en­ergy down the reef. The bar­rels look un­make­able but it seems I am about to be proven wrong.

Ja­cob and Shaun waste lit­tle time pad­dling out across the la­goon. The pad­dle is easy enough un­til you reach the edge of the la­goon where there is no de­fined gap in the reef and you have to run the gaunt­let with the sets that im­plode un­pre­dictably in front of you. The reef is pep­pered with coral heads that are like hid­den mines – you never know when you are go­ing to be hit by one. How­ever, it's not so much the shal­low­ness that you worry about but the power. Gnar­aloo has been known to break fe­murs and snap col­lar­bones.

“He roams the reef like a hunter in search of prey”

Within min­utes of reach­ing the lineup, Ja­cob is bend­ing his mal­leable frame into a se­ries of bar­rels. He's been surf­ing here since he was six and spent half a year in the camp when he was only nine. At 17 he is a Gnar­aloo vet­eran and his ex­pe­ri­ence shows. He roams the reef like a hunter in search of prey, sling-shot­ting into deep run­ners, drag­ging his fingers across the roof of stand-up pits and art­fully string­ing to­gether dou­ble bar­rel rides. He con­sis­tently takes off 20 yards deeper than the morn­ing pack and the crowd is in awe of his ap­proach.

When the first solid six-footer rolls through, Shaun Man­ners hurls him­self over the lip on his back­hand. From the com­fort of the shoul­der, it's like watch­ing a mouse get chased off a bal­cony by a cat. Some­how he gets to the bot­tom but by the time he lands he's starved of speed and can't get around the sec­tion. "He usu­ally pulls back on ones like that, " sug­gests Ja­cob, more than a lit­tle im­pressed with the ef­fort

"It's pretty good watch­ing th­ese young grom­mets have a go," sug­gests one beam­ing punter who pad­dles past me.

Shaun's dad Matt is also one of the stand­outs, hack­ing huge turns off ver­ti­cal sec­tions and stron­garm­ing his way through gur­gling pits. It's clearly ap­par­ent where the tal­ent comes from.

THE PULSE

The swell builds as the day pro­gresses. At eight feet Gnar­aloo is one of the most de­mand­ing waves on the planet. There is no easy en­try point and just pad­dling in is like try­ing to jump on a de­railed train. The long, coil­ing faces ap­pear to be clean but they're of­ten booby-trapped with kinks and bumps, which will buck you off un­mer­ci­fully. It's not un­com­mon to hurl your­self over the ledge only to find an­other shelf of wa­ter three feet be­low you. A good ride of­ten has less to do with en­joy­ing per­fec­tion than it does with the sat­is­fac­tion that comes from sur­viv­ing one of na­ture's great ob­sta­cle cour­ses.

Will­cox seems to thrive on the chal­lenge and gets bar­relled so of­ten that it's pos­si­ble to an­a­lyse his tube rid­ing mas­tery. His tran­si­tion from ly­ing prone on his board to be­ing per­fectly bal­anced in a stand­ing po­si­tion is light­ning quick, how­ever he never looks rushed. The move­ment is more fluid than a bird tak­ing flight – the sort of qual­ity Lopez pos­sessed. Some peo­ple earn their tube props by fear­lessly hurl­ing them­selves over ledges ir­re­spec­tive of abil­ity. Ja­cob is sim­ply more skil­ful, one for whom bar­rel rid­ing is more of art form than a test of bravado.

Dino Adrian, Jar­rah Tut­ton and Joel Ash­p­land all ap­pear for the lunch time pulse. The off­shore kicks in, the sun comes out and the gap­ing bar­rels turn a brighter shade of blue. The al­lur­ing aqua tint plays a cruel trick on the mind mak­ing the waves look invit­ing enough to make you think the bar­rels are more eas­ily make­able.

By the time Shaun and Ja­cob come in from their first ses­sion, the carpark is full. It's a desert drive-in with non-stop en­ter­tain­ment – warp­ing eight foot bar­rels, heroic rides and heavy wipe­outs. The best part is you can pad­dle out and be­come a star in the show or a bit player any time you like. Like most world-class waves Gnar­aloo has its devo­tees, un­der­ground tube hounds who charge fear­lessly with­out the in­cen­tive of spon­sor­ship dol­lars. As we watch from the carpark between ses­sions Mar­garet River's Joel Aspland freefalls over the ledge on his back­hand and sur­vives the buck­les to score a magic ride that has the carpark crowd cheer­ing. Not long af­ter an un­known goofy footer with a heavy beard weaves his brightly coloured lance through a cou­ple of col­laps­ing tun­nels and non­cha­lantly kicks out.

In the pop­u­lated east­ern states surfers know how to ne­go­ti­ate busy line­ups, mean­while in the North West even the av­er­age surfer can han­dle a heavy bar­rel.

NIGHT WATCH

By night at the camp one can find con­tent­ment enough in easy con­ver­sa­tion and the spec­tac­u­lar ce­les­tial view. As we sit around and stare at the stars, Matt re­flects on his first trip up here in the 1983 with Dave Ma­cauley and a crew of in­trepid WA charg­ers. " There was no four­wheel drive. We drove a Kingswood sedan up here and let the tyres down to han­dle the tracks… You weren't al­lowed to camp at Gnar­aloo back then so we went to the Bluff… I re­mem­ber go­ing fish­ing with a hook at­tached to the end of a chain and al­most be­ing dragged in to the wa­ter by a shark," he laughs. The way Matt re­mem­bers it, the epic if not calami­tous trip had a defin­ing con­clu­sion. "We went down to do the dishes on the rocks by the Bluff and they got washed away by a wave and that was kind of the end of it." While Matt is rem­i­nisc­ing about his trips up north, Daz is run­ning around in the dark with his cam­era try­ing to cap­ture the night sky with a cou­ple of slow ex­po­sure tricks and Russ, the for­mer rugby league pro­fes­sional, is bel­low­ing out up­dates on the State of Ori­gin match with the help of his ra­dio. In the still of the desert night ev­ery site and ev­ery sound is just that lit­tle bit more vivid. Mean­while Ja­cob and Shaun are al­ready asleep, their bod­ies lan­guid with over-ex­er­cise, their minds full of the bar­rels they'd rid­den and the ones they might ride the next day.

We drove a Kingswood sedan up here and let the tyres down to han­dle the tracks… I re­mem­ber go­ing fish­ing with a hook at­tached to the end of a chain and al­most be­ing dragged in to the wa­ter by a shark

MATT MAN­NERS

THE DESERT TRAIN­ING GROUND

The fol­low­ing morn­ing the swell sub­sides marginally but loses none of its fre­netic grind along the reef. If any­thing it's a lit­tle cleaner. Jay Davies is peer­ing in­tently seaward when we ar­rive at the carpark look­out. The hulk­ish nat­u­ral footer has tweaked a knee and is out of the wa­ter. Al­though dis­ap­pointed to be miss­ing out on the fun he seems con­tent enough to dis­tract him­self with other pur­suits. "I came up with my chick. She likes eat­ing fish and I like fish­ing so it's all good," he states mat­ter-of-factly. At Gnar­aloo, the sec­ond most-asked ques­tion af­ter, "What are you rid­ing?" is "What tackle are you us­ing on your line?" With mack­erel, tuna and an in­fi­nite num­ber of other blue rib­bon species up for grabs, fish­ing is a big part of the North West ex­pe­ri­ence. So abun­dant is the sup­ply of fish that re­stric­tions on catch loads had to be in­tro­duced. Ap­par­ently keen an­glers had been driv­ing north equipped with gi­ant re­frig­er­a­tion units and catch­ing all the fish they needed for a year.

As we check the lineup WA videog­ra­pher Tom Jen­nings points and ges­tic­u­lates ex­cit­edly as an empty wave al­most con­nects all the way from the out­side sec­tion at Cen­tres through to the main Tomb­stones sec­tion of the reef. "Ant­man, Camel and Dean Mor­ri­son have all had one that goes all the way through," sug­gests Tom as though re­fer­ring to the holy grail of surf­ing at Gnar­aloo. While we watch, big Dawbs crams his size­able frame into a drainer at the Cen­ters sec­tion of the reef and the morn­ing crew cheer the good-na­tured gi­ant all the way. At Gnar­alooo you've always got a shot at be­ing a carpark hero.

For Ja­cob and Shaun it's an­other day of re­lent­less tube hunt­ing.The green room rather than the class­room is the fo­cus as they serve their ap­pren­tice­ship at one of he world's most chal­leng­ing train­ing grounds. Hope­fully one day they will be rep­re­sent­ing Aus­tralia at waves like Pipe and Chopes mak­ing use of ev­ery­thing they learned from the buckle-faced bar­rels of Gnar­aloo. Al­though to­day is glo­ri­ous Shaun is adamant that mak­ing it as a pro in­volves much more than surf­ing per­fect waves. "You've def­i­nitely gotta love it… Be will­ing to surf crap. You gotta surf that crap and push through it. And it's not just win­ning heats. It's how you free surf. Look at John John – he won a cou­ple of heats and re­leases some of the best clips in the world." Sounds easy enough in the­ory but the ex­e­cu­tion is a lit­tle trick­ier.

Dur­ing the sec­ond ses­sion Shaun and Ja­cob are joined in the lineup by a pair of mas­sive manta rays that flap their fins grace­fully like birds of the sea. At one point the rays are so close to the pack they lit­er­ally swim over a cou­ple of surfers, re­mind­ing us all that we were just pedes­tri­ans in a ma­rine high­way. Dawbs in his in­fi­nite wis­dom has a the­ory on why the two rays are hang­ing around. "They must be ei­ther eat­ing or root­ing I reckon," he prof­fers sagely between sets.

It's near-dark by the time the two grom­mets pad­dle in – will­ing slaves to Gnar­aloo's sim­ple rou­tine of eat, sleep, surf, re­peat. As they reach the shore the western sun is like a vain­glo­ri­ous ac­tor pro­long­ing his death scene for as long as he can – bleed­ing molten red over the dusk sky. If the desert night were not such a pretty mur­derer you'd never for­give her for killing off such an in­cred­i­ble day.

ROUND THE COR­NER

Down at Dino Adrian's car­a­van the scent of Emu Bit­ters and last night's cooked mack­erel still lingers as the morn­ing sun slowly thaws the desert chill. Af­ter two straight days of big bar­rels and good fish­ing there had been cause for camp­fire cel­e­bra­tion with a crew that in­cluded Jar­rah Tut­ton, Jay Davies, and Joel Ash­p­land.

How­ever, the first seedy draw of breath and bleary eyed glance at the ocean re­veals the swell has hung in and the wind is just right for a cer­tain right-han­der around the cor­ner. Al­though his heart may be set on a day of fish­ing, Dino knows it would be wrong not to check the spot. At a sen­si­ble hour that co­in­cides with the op­ti­mal tide, Dino and his crew take the tyre-eat­ing trail round the cor­ner, by­pass­ing a few graz­ing roos and the fear­some look­ing herd of wild goats that roam the desert flats.

By the time our own wave-weary crew makes its way to the same fa­bled spot, Dino is parked atop the spec­tac­u­lar look­out, um­ming and ah­hing about whether or not to pad­dle out. The wave breaks some 50 me­tres be­low, at the base of a cliff. The shore­line – if you could call it that – is dis­tin­guished by an­gu­lar boul­ders the size of houses, piled high on top of one an­other. The wave is an an­tipodean ver­sion of Back­door Pipe, break­ing barely a leg rope's length be­yond a bar­na­cleen­crusted slab of reef. Fingers of rock jut into the lineup and gain­ing ac­cess in­volves a tap dance across the frag­mented shelf that is full of holes and pit­falls. But ahhh the bar­rels on of­fer when you make it to the other side. Kelly once made the wave fa­mous and Parko and Andy shared an epic ses­sion here many moons ago, but to­day it's just the boys who live in W.A.

"We've been here an hour and only re­ally seen a cou­ple," sug­gests Dino in his typ­i­cally un­der­stated drawl. He looks ragged with his patchy beard and un­kempt hair. It's not the man­u­fac­tured look of di­shevel­ment you might ex­pect from a hip­ster – just a plain grungi­ness that says, "I'm here to surf and fish and I don't give a damn what I look like". Fi­nally Dino de­cides it's worth a go out and nim­bly descends the goat track that leads to the base of the cliff.

Af­ter ne­go­ti­at­ing the rocks Dino finds him­self alone in a lineup lo­cated at the bot­tom of a cliff, in the mid­dle of nowhere and the cor­re­spond­ing sense of vul­ner­a­bil­ity adds to the drama. From up on high it's dif­fi­cult to gauge the size of the swell but the first set that rolls through is at least eight feet. As it pyra­mids Dino swings with­out hes­i­ta­tion, scratches in and barely makes it un­der the lip, where for a few won­der­ful seconds he stands bolt up­right in a gleam­ing bar­rel like some kind of board-mounted tro­phy.

An­ni­hi­la­tion seems in­evitable as the wave twists from per­fect cham­ber to vi­o­lent close­out, but Dino plans his exit ex­pertly and es­capes as the de­scend­ing lip erupts at his an­kles. He's in front of a crowd that barely makes dou­ble fig­ures but from up on the cliffs it feels like the ul­ti­mate big sta­dium per­for­mance and ev­ery­one goes ab­so­lutely mad when he emerges from the cloud of ex­plod­ing foam. In­spired by Dino, Jar­rah and Joel fol­low quickly be­hind and so be­gins the desert shoot out – Jar­rah stylishly paint­ing the roof with a dragged hand, Shaun push­ing him­self to go deeper with each ride.

THE DESERT DROP IN

When Dino snaps a legrope Shaun's Dad, Matt, is wait­ing at the base of the cliff with a back up. Matt makes Dino's boards and is rel­ish­ing the op­por­tu­nity to see equip­ment he made pushed to the ab­so­lute limit. Af­ter study­ing the lineup from ev­ery an­gle Matt hints that per­haps Ja­cob and Shaun should give it a shot. He's not at all pushy, rather it's the gen­tly guid­ing voice of a wise fa­ther who knows much more can be achieved by quiet sug­ges­tion than self-serv­ing in­sis­tence.

Shaun and Ja­cob re­spond to the chal­lenge and take up a po­si­tion in the lineup. It's a thresh­old mo­ment – al­though both are highly com­pe­tent surfers it's a ses­sion that will test both their temer­ity and skill. As they make their way out Dawbs ap­pears at the edge of the cliff and shouts, "Come on Chippo show us what you got". To the Mar­garet River com­mu­nity who has closely fol­lowed his ca­reer, Ja­cob is known sim­ply as Chippo or Chip­per.

With the waves still fir­ing the older trio are ini­tially re­luc­tant to re­lin­quish sets to the grom­mets who are equally aus­pi­cious about lay­ing claim to a big­ger wave. How­ever, both score de­cent rides, this time Shaun util­is­ing his fore­hand to pull in a lit­tle deeper than his rail-grab­bing spar­ring part­ner. Even­tu­ally Shaun and Ja­cob are the only two in the lineup and such is their des­per­a­tion to score a bomb in front of the cam­eras and the crowd that they drop in on one an­other. Ja­cob will later claim it was his turn and Shaun will ar­gue he

had the in­side. With the wind shift­ing and the in­com­ing tide mov­ing the wave per­ilously close to the shelf, the two young surfers pad­dle in, both still fum­ing about the desert in­ter­fer­ence. A few min­utes of stonewalling are fol­lowed by a lit­tle ac­cu­sa­tive ban­ter but ev­ery­one is too buzzed from the ses­sion to let it be­come an is­sue. The in­ci­dent only serves to re­flect how much th­ese two young waves­lid­ers from West Aus­tralia both want to lay claim to their place in surf­ing.

By the time we ar­rive back at camp Ja­cob and Shaun are on good terms again, per­haps aware that their friend­ship will be valu­able in a shared com­pet­i­tive future where there are many other foes to take on and sit­u­a­tions to con­front.

With an­other swell on the charts Matt and Shaun are stay­ing on, fa­ther and son de­ter­mined to gorge on the Gnar­aloo bar­rels and con­tent with the sim­plic­ity of car­a­van liv­ing. It's dif­fi­cult not to be jeal­ous of their free­dom as I con­tem­plate a re­turn to east coast traf­fic and crowded beach break line­ups. Ja­cob mean­while has an Amer­i­canBeauty as­sign­ment and his high school T.E.E. to oc­cupy him. In a few days he's rid­den deep in­side count­less glow­ing bar­rels, watched the sun con­duct desert light shows and the night sky cast its spell, seen di­a­mond-backed goan­nas scut­tle and manta rays glide. What­ever Amer­i­canBeauty was about it seems noth­ing on the Aus­tralian ver­sion. An­other 14 hours of driv­ing lay ahead. For­tu­nately there are plenty of waves to re­flect on and Rus­sell knows how to spin a good yarn. Just who earned the ti­tle of Cap­tain Bar­rel on this trip is de­bat­able, but ev­ery­one sure as hell had a good crack at the helm.

To see footage of the crazy tubes from this trip, go to Tracksmag.com and search for Com­fort Caves.

ORD

Ja­cob Will­cox per­fom­ing at the Gnar­aloo sta­dium. ||

ORD

Josh Ah­s­p­land back­ing him­self hands free on a yawn­ing Tomb­stones pit. ||

MAIN Dino Adrian mid­dling a mon­u­men­tal right.|| ORD IN­SET Dino's desert dress code.|| ORD

JAMIE SCOTT

MAIN: Jar­rah Tut­ton test­ing out his wing­span in a dreamy tun­nel.||

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